The tree has no choice about starting its life in the crack of a rock…. What
[nourishment] it finds is often meager, and above the ground appears a twisted
trunk, grown in irregular spurts, marred by dead and broken branches, and bent
far to one side by the battering winds. Yet at the top … some twigs hold their
green year after year, giving proof that – misshapen, imperfect,
scarred – the tree lives. Harriet
Arrow
